


Gratuity

by Murreleteer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Confessions, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Prostitution, Healing Sex, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murreleteer/pseuds/Murreleteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a supposedly simple assignment to intercept a foreign agent, d'Artagnan ends up in over his head and has to take desperate measures to complete his mission. In the days that follow, Athos is overcome with a growing sense that something is horribly wrong with the young man he is just beginning to love. Now, if only he can find out what, and work out what to do about it if he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratuity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the kink meme [here.](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=9222#cmt9222)
> 
> Prompt (which I did not follow exactly): _The boys need to get some valuable information from a dangerous mark on the sly. D'Artagnon volunteers to be the inside man and ends up seducing the mark and getting in way over his head. Cue dub-con and a terrified Athos rushing in to comfort the boy when it's all over._
> 
> The OP also did some really lovely (SFW) art work, which may be found [here.](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=33286#cmt33286)
> 
> Content notes: Dub con (coerced sex/forced prostitution), alcohol abuse and suicidal ideation.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

D'Artagnan batted away Aramis' hands, busy trying to fuss with with the lace at his collar, in order to turn and look Athos in the eye. "I told you I was," he said, trying not to snap, even if this was the fifth time Athos had asked. "Look, all I need to do is meet this Englishman, convince him I'm the Cardinal's agent, who he's expecting, by the way, get the letters, and come back here. We're not planning the siege of Le Rochelle."

"I don't like it," Athos said, also for the fifth time, and for the fifth time d'Artagnan sighed. Of course he didn't. Some days it seemed as though he didn't like anything d'Artagnan did. It hardly seemed fair, not after everything d'Artagnan had done for the Musketeers.

"You go then," d'Artagnan snapped, knowing perfectly well he could not, then smiling innocently at Athos' glare.

Aramis gave his sleeves one last tug and jammed a wide, feathered hat on his head. "Best I can do without a curling iron, I'm afraid." He reached in to push a strand of d'Artagnan's hair behind his ear nonetheless. "You should consider growing it out."

"Next time I have to pretend to be a courtier, and have a year's notice, I will." He ducked under Aramis' arm and stood back. "How do I look?"

Porthos snorted. "Like a Gascon farm boy in a stolen jacket."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos, who shrugged minutely. "I suppose it will do."

"Really," Aramis added with faux optimism, "You're not much worse than him." A head tilt indicated the Cardinal's true agent, now stripped to his smalls, tied up, and stuffed in a closet. "If he's ever been to court, I'll eat my saddle." The man's eyes narrowed and he grunted into the gag.

"Off you go." Porthos slapped d'Artagnan's shoulders, pushing him towards the door. "Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"Which leaves such a wealth of options." Aramis gave his half-cape a straitening tug as he stumbled past.

Athos caught his his arm, bringing his momentum to a halt. His fingers dug into d'Artagnan's shoulder, bruising even through five layers of satin and lace. "Be careful," he said urgently. Something dark and intense burned in his eyes, and d'Artagnan had to look away. Athos caught his chin between gloved fingers, forcing his head up. "One of us will be watching the house; if anything goes wrong–"

D'Artagnan jerked away, stumbling back into the door. "I'll be _fine_!" He found the latch and escaped before Athos could express his lack of faith in him a seventh time.

* * *

A manservant admitted him without comment and led him deep into the Englishman's house, passing though dimly-lit corridors and stairways, and finally to a small sitting room, itself ablaze with candlelight and mirrors. D'Artagnan had lost his orientation, and the curtains were pulled against the moonlight, but he thought they'd come to the back of the house, facing east, and high above the street. It would be a long way down to the walled garden if he needed to escape through the window.

The servant said something in English, and a tall man rose out of a high-backed chair and turned to meet them. He was younger than d'Artagnan had expected, probably not over thirty, and had an unquestionably English look to him: square, clean-shaven face, with a strong jaw and blunt cheekbones, sand-brown hair curling to his shoulders, and wide-set blue eyes. He wore every inch of lace and frippery that d'Artagnan had on, and then some, but the waterfall of teal and ivory fabric actually suited him. He waved the servant away, casually, not taking his eyes off d'Artagnan.

"Monsieur..." d'Artagnan started, then broke off, realising that he should wait to be addressed. He hoped the man spoke French, as his own English did not extend past ordering wine and insulting someone's mother. 

The man smiled warmly, and asked, "The Cardinal sent you?" in only lightly accented French.

"Yes, Monsieur," d'Artagnan said, trying to hide his relief. "I'm collecting some letters for his Eminence."

The man nodded, almost absently, and d'Artagnan was just starting to wonder if it could indeed be that easy, when the man crossed the room towards him. "There is, of course, the matter of recompense." He stopped mere inches from d'Artagnan, so close that the lace fringe of d'Artagnan's half cape brushed the Englishman's sleeve, and d'Artagnan could smell the wine on his breath. D'Artagnan pressed his hat to his hip, crushing it. "Dear Louis' letters have such sentimental value, especially since he will no longer receive me."

 _"Dear Louis,"_ d'Artagnan thought. _He can't mean the King!_ But that would go a long way to explaining Captain Treville's insistence that this mission was vital to the nation. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan didn't have any form of payment. They'd searched the Cardinal's man to the skin, and he hadn't been carrying anything either.

"His Eminence understands how you feel," he extemporised, quashing the urge to back away. "But, Monsieur, I thought that he had already..." He let his eyebrows rise in a question and tried to look as innocent and confused as possible, not a difficult task under the circumstances.

The Englishman frowned, and d'Artagnan held his breath until the other's lips parted in understanding and his brow cleared. "Ah!" he said. "We are talking across each other, I think. The Cardinal has indeed made the arrangements you speak of. However, I had understood that the bearer of the letters had a little..." he hesitated, apparently seeking the correct word, "A gratuity. A small comfort in dear Louis' absence." He lifted his hand to brush the backs of his un-gloved fingers across d'Artagnan's cheek. "And such a pretty young thing you are, a ruffian in borrowed feathers. The Cardinal must know my taste precisely."

D'Artagnan blanched, taking half a step back before he realised it and made himself stop. He could feel his thoughts racing in time to his pounding heart. It had become all too clear what the Englishman wanted, and what he would have to do to get the letters. Captain Treville had told him no serious harm could come to the Englishman, and if knocking him out and searching his rooms would have worked, the Cardinal would probably have already done it. Saying this had all been a terrible mistake and diving head first out a third-story window probably wouldn't get him anywhere either.

No, this was his only chance to outplay the Cardinal and rescue the King's letters from his clutches. The frowning, dubious visage of Athos entered his thoughts. D'Artagnan had promised he could do this. He didn't think he could stand to be on the receiving end of one of Athos' eloquently disdainful glances, where a subtle shift of his eye and turn of his lip that indicated that its target was too low for even a word of scorn. Porthos and Aramis might cloak their disappointment with him in conciliatory sympathy, but Athos would simply turn away, wordless, cutting d'Artagnan to the bone. D'Artagnan couldn't fail; he could not.

All these thoughts and more tore through his head in the time it took the Englishman's hand to drop and the lines to reappear on his brow. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, d'Artagnan had dropped his hat, taken a full step forward, and looped his arms around the Englishman's neck. "Of course, Monsieur," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't immediately take your meaning. I get confused sometimes."

The Englishman smiled and his hands took hold of d'Artagnan's hips. "I knew I had the right of it," he murmured, mouth not an inch from d'Artagnan's. "Why else would the Cardinal send me such a very beautiful young man?"

"I can't think of another reason," d'Artagnan replied. He hesitated only half a heartbeat more, then closed the distance between their lips. The Englishman's mouth felt soft and open and he tasted of wine. It wouldn't be so bad, d'Artagnan decided; he could spend an hour pretending he was with someone else, someone he couldn't name even in his own thoughts, then he'd have the letters and be away. Then the Musketeers would all be proud of him, Captain Treville would thank him for his work, and Athos, Athos would rest a hand on his shoulder and smile. D'Artagnan felt his own mouth curve up in anticipation.

The Englishman pulled their bodies flush against one another and his tongue pushed into d'Artagnan's mouth. D'Artagnan could feel his grunt of satisfaction though both their clothes, and the press of hands on his hips made him feel naked already. The man wasn't giving him time to breathe, and, besides, he had no beard. He could feel his heart start to race, in panic not excitement, and again contemplated the window.

Before he got that far, D'Artagnan broke the kiss and let his arms fall to his sides, leaning back enough to focus on the Englishman's face. "His Eminence trusts me to make sure you're completely satisfied, Monsieur." He licked his lips and glanced up at the Englishman through his bangs. "I hope I won't disappoint you, maybe if you told me the kind of thing you liked?" He could feel his face growing hot, and the flush deepened at the Englishman's indulgent smile.

He cupped the side of d'Artagnan face, tracing his cheekbone with the ball of his thumb. "As if you could ever be a disappointment, my dear boy." He pressed a kiss to d'Artagnan's forehead and whispered into his hair, "Still, I suppose there's no harm in telling you that I plan to kiss you, and strip you, and touch you, and bugger you senseless." The low, inevitable cadence of his voice as much as the words themselves sent a shiver down d'Artagnan's spine. "How does that sound?" He asked, almost purring now. "Do you think you'd like me to do all those things to you?"

It felt like drowning. D'Artagnan couldn't tell if he was more afraid or excited by the man's words, the whole idea of it felt like too much for him to bear. Instead of answering, he let his head fall forward to rest on the Englishman's shoulder. The starched lace scratched his cheek, but he buried his face in it anyway, an unpardonable whimper escaping his lips. The Englishman stroked his hair, ruffling the ends, then smoothing it down again and again, the steady slide of his hands soothing d'Artagnan's nerves. As his heart rate slowed, he found himself nodding under the Englishman's touch, and when the Englishman repeated his question, d'Artagnan said, "I'd like to please you, Monsieur." The last edge of his fear made him add, "It's only... you see, I've never..."

"Ah," the Englishman said, his voice loud enough to startle d'Artagnan. He pulled away and took d'Artagnan's face in both hands, looking him steadily in the eye. His broad face was open, expression warm with sympathy. "I see what you mean. The Cardinal has sent me a gift indeed. Don't worry, dear boy, I wouldn't dream of hurting you. I hope you'll take as much pleasure in this as I will."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and nodded again, reminding himself that this wouldn't be so bad. The man showed no signs of being cruel, and he'd heard enough stories to know that many men lay with one another, apparently with mutual satisfaction. His friends would think him an ill-bred country boy for hesitating. More so than they did already.

Fixing his mind on the rarely-glimpsed sight of Athos smiling in approval, d'Artagnan tugged at the fastenings of his jacket. The cursed thing had at least a dozen tiny buttons, and he found that his hands were trembling too badly to find his way around them.

"Easy," the Englishman said, enclosing d'Artagnan's hands in his own. "Let me." He worked his way up from the bottom, undoing button after button, then the clasps at the collar until the jacket fell open and the half-cape dropped to the floor. When the Englishman pushed at the edges of the jacket, d'Artagnan let him peel it off down his arms, just as he let him undo the ties of his shirt and pull it off over his head, ridiculous lace collar and cuffs and all. He stood shirtless, shivering despite the warmth of the summer night, and let the Englishman unbuckle his belts and disarm him, and unbutton his trousers until they dropped to the tops of his boots. He let the Englishman push him back onto the edge of a chair, and took his boots and trousers off when he asked.

While he was doing this, the Englishman stripped to his white linen smalls with precise, elegant movements, as if undressing were a dance. D'Artagnan watched, transfixed, as layer after layer of clothing fell to the floor. The flesh underneath didn't have the tone of a fighting man, but hadn't run to fat either; it looked solid, smooth and very pale. D'Artagnan remembered hearing that it rained all the time in England and no one ever saw the sun. Light brown hair scatted across the Englishman's chest, thickening into a line below his navel. He stood, hands on his hips, watching d'Artagnan look at him, smiling as d'Artagnan's eyes tracked down the erection tenting his smalls. A wet patch had darkened the linen, and d'Artagnan found himself unable to tear his eyes away.

"Come here, my boy," the Englishman said, reaching down to d'Artagnan then pulling to his feet and into a long, slow kiss. He ran his hand's in circling caresses down d'Artagnan's bare arms, down his back, across his chest. Thumbnails tweaked his nipples, fingertips found their way under the edges of his own smalls. "You feel so good," the Englishman murmured between kisses. "Here, let me take those off for you," he added working those last fastenings free.

Then d'Artagnan stood fully naked under his touch. He shivered and pressed against the Englishman, seeking warmth. When their bodies lay together, skin to skin, it didn't seem so strange, at least not until that low voice with its exotic accent spoke again.

"Come into my chambers, darling." He tugged at d'Artagnan's hand, and d'Artagnan let himself be led though to a room with a low fire and an enormous canopied bed. "It's so much nicer to do this lying down."

D'Artagnan froze in place at the sight of the bed. He had to take several long breaths before he could make himself take another step. Again, the image of Athos' face pushed him on, neither smiling now disdainful now, but watchful, a mute witness. D'Artagnan took comfort from that, crossed the rest of the room to perch on the edge of the bed. It sank unexpectedly beneath him, eiderdown giving way as a straw tick would not. 

The bed shifted again as the Englishman settled beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders. He kissed d'Artagnan's cheek in a way that felt far more familiar than the hand resting on his thigh. That hand drifted up to brush his cock, just the backs of his fingers against the skin, the same way the Englishman had first touched his face. For the first time that evening, d'Artagnan felt a jolt of lust. It hardened his cock and spread a flush from his belly all the way up to his face.

"That's my boy." The Englishman's voice was soft and indulgent. "I told you you would enjoy this. Come, roll onto your front. It's easier that way, especially the first time." He pressed at d'Artagnan's shoulders, rolling him over, pausing to slide a few pillows under his hips. "No, spread your legs, darling. That's right." His voice soothed as his hands stroked across d'Artagnan's skin, their path taking them over the curve of his ass and across the soft skin between his legs this time. The hands were soft, he realised, like a fine lady's, free of a worker's or a swordsmen's callouses. These hands had never laboured, but now they touched every part of d'Artagnan's skin, just as the Englishman had promised they would.

The quilted coverlet felt good against d'Artagnan's half-hard cock, and he rubbed against it, letting himself fall into the sensation. He liked this touching, the feeling of being surrounded on all sides. When the Englishman's hands, now slippery, slid back up between his legs, he moaned but didn't protest.

"You're being very good," the Englishman said as he pressed a finger right up inside d'Artagnan, feeling satisfying and impossible at the same time. "Shhhhhh, you're all right now. I'll look after you. You just lie still." So d'Artagnan did. He spread his legs wider and then lay still as the Englishman removed his fingers and pushed inside him. He might have whimpered a little into the blankets when the Englishman's hips met his ass, and choked at the feel of a hand caressing his balls, but mostly he lay still.

As the Englishman pressed himself into him again and again and again, his hands roaming over every inch of his skin, d'Artagnan held onto the silent spectre of Athos watching over him. The image of his friend stayed with him as the Englishman spent himself inside d'Artagnan, and that name might have just crossed his lips when a soft smooth hand brought him to his own completion.

"What was that, my boy?" the Englishman asked, but d'Artagnan shook his head. He continued to lie still until the Englishman pulled out and rolled away, then gingerly wiggled off the bed. His as felt a little sore, but no worse than after a full day's riding, just... different, and strange. "Well never mind," the Englishman continued languorously, lying sprawled on his back, naked save for a linen sheath tied around his lax cock. "I've kept you long enough. My man will give you the letters on your way out."

D'Artagnan crossed to the other room and began to collect his clothes. Only as he finished dressing, surprising himself with the steadiness of his hands, did the Englishman say, "Thank you for a wonderful evening, young man, and do pass my thanks to your Cardinal as well."

D'Artagnan nodded, unable to trust his voice, and made his escape.

Letters tucked into his jacket, clothes and weapons in good order, he stepped into the darkened street. Even the warm summer air felt cool now, like bathing his face in stream water. He turned and started directly for their meeting place, steps brisk.

Porthos joined him a street away, fading out of the shadows. "You get them?"

"I did," was all d'Artagnan could bring himself to say.

"Any trouble? You were in there a while."

"No," d'Artagnan told him. "No trouble at all."

Porthos looped an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders jerking him into a quick half embrace. "Good job, kid."

The darkness must have hid d'Artagnan's expression, because Porthos didn't seem to notice his face pale.

* * *

There was something wrong with d'Artagnan.

Athos first noticed it the morning after the mission with the Englishman's letters, and he supposed that was where it must have started. The mission itself seemed to have gone well; d'Artagnan had acquitted himself admirably, bringing back the letters with no harm come to him; everyone had sincerely congratulated him, provoking countless suppressed smiles of gratification, and they'd shared a bottle until d'Artagnan had claimed fatigue and returned to his lodgings. Though, looking back, Athos had to admit that that had occurred rather earlier in the evening than was usual, even for a country boy.

The next morning, d'Artagnan had attended the briefing with Captain Treville as usual, and as usual had ducked his head and glowed a little when Treville had thanked him, and then he'd said he had to go and scuttled away. He hadn't stopped to have a drink with his friends, or listen to the Musketeers gossip and tell war stories, he hadn't even asked to tag along after the three inseparables as he usually did, or, as more recently, hadn't assumed that he had permission and followed them unasked. No, when he'd finally met Athos' eyes, after a morning of avoiding them, he'd blurted something about Madam Bonacieux and outright vanished.

Athos had seen Aramis and Porthos exchange a glance, but Treville had assigned work for them, and no one had a chance to pursue the boy. Still, it had pecked away in the back of Athos' thoughts for the rest of the day.

D'Artagnan only re-emerged as the sun started to slant down over the roofs of the city, casting the streets into welcome shade. Athos, who had just come off standing guard at the king's hunt, was sitting with his back against the north-facing wall of the courtyard, trying to absorb some of the cool from the stone. No shade nor breeze nor stone nor white wine chill from the cellar did much to cut through his leather uniform, and, so, Athos languished in the heat, drinking.

When he saw d'Artagnan, he raised his glass, motioning him over, but the boy's eyes slid past him, as though he hadn't seen Athos, and he turned away.

Sighing, Athos downed the remainder of the cup and levered himself to his feet. The boy was starting to irritate him, and Athos could think of nothing worse to suffer on a hot day than a comrade with a high temper. He came up behind d'Artagnan just as Serge was telling him that Porthos was attending the Queen – which Athos knew to mean that Aramis was attending the Queen, and Porthos was attending Aramis, in a predestinate futile effort to keep his friend out of trouble.

He hadn't been trying to move with any kind of stealth, but when he stopped behind d'Artagnan's shoulder and asked why he was looking for Porthos, the boy started. He didn't jump a foot to the side, or spin around to face Athos, hand on his sword, or even flinch visibly, but sucked in a soft, sudden breath and tightened the muscles along his neck and shoulders; his chin lifted ever so slightly, as though he were expecting a blow. 

"Porthos?" Athos asked again, and d'Artagnan's face cleared, his shoulders slumping.

"He said he'd spar with me, if he had time."

"Clearly, he doesn't. Not today." Athos fixed d'Artagnan with a look, continuing, "Which you would know had you stayed to the end of our meeting with Captain Treville. However," he added, as d'Artagnan started to twist away, "If formal duelling interests you as much as back-alley brawling, I'd be happy to take his place." Athos did not, in fact, object to d'Artagnan learning every dirty trick in Porthos' book; tall as he was, the slim young man could use any advantage he could get. Still, if he wanted to be a King's Musketeer one day, he would need to learn how to do things properly, and how to do them well. As things were going now, Athos could easily picture d'Artagnan imperilling the progeniture of some foreign principality with a well-placed boot between the legs.

Serge, who'd been edging out of the conversation glanced from Athos to d'Artagnan and back again, then shook his head and walked off. D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows in question, and Athos tilted his head to surrender the point, admitting, "It's not an offer I make often." Or, discounting practice with Porthos and Aramis, ever. D'Artagnan hesitated, seemingly torn, though why that would be the case, Athos had no idea. It couldn't be a fear of obligation; Athos owed him far more than the occasional fencing lesson, and they both knew it. Still, he added, "It would be a reason to remove our jackets. Do you not find the heat oppressive?"

There was that twitch again, accompanied, now that Athos could see his face, but a tightening at the corners of his mouth and a faint line between his brows. It vanished a heartbeat later, replaced by a simulacrum of d'Artagnan's usual easy smile. "Maybe some other time," he said. Then he turned sideways, slide between Athos and a bench, and fled the courtyard.

Athos stared after him in dumb amazement. He had to wonder what in the world was the matter with the boy. The most obvious conclusion was that he was avoiding Athos himself for some reason, but that didn't make any sense. He'd been as normal the day before, and between then and this morning, Athos hadn't treated him any differently then he had since d'Artagnan had attached himself to their little company. The only intervening event that he knew of was the encounter with the Englishman, and Athos couldn't think why such a successful mission would lead d'Artagnan to avoid any of them, let alone himself specifically.

He returned to his place by the wall, but by the time he got there, the wine had warmed, and his mood had turned sour.

* * *

That evening, Athos asked Porthos to take d'Artagnan out drinking, just to make sure there wasn't something wrong with him, which got him a suspicious look, no useful intelligence, and two friends complaining of sore heads the next day.

"He seems fine," Porthos said, pulling the brim of his hat even further down over his eyes. They were on their way east to the palace, and the sun had already become unbearable. "A bit jumpy maybe, but who can tell with him. I'll tell you what though, he can handle more wine than you'd think."

Athos nodded. He didn't imagine there was much to do down in Gascony other than manufacture and consume vast quantities of astringent Tannat. No wonder d'Artagnan had stayed in Paris.

"Why'd you ask, anyway?" Porthos looked sideways at him, not suspicious now, but perhaps concerned.

"Oh, I don't know," Athos admitted. He was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined the whole thing. "He's been jumpy, as you say, and I think..." he broke off, not sure if he wanted to admit to either noticing or caring about d'Artagnan's behaviour, but he wouldn't fool Porthos anyway, not even sober. "I think he's been avoiding me."

Not unexpectedly, Porthos laughed at him. "There _must_ be something wrong with him then, if he doesn't want to spend his time in your charming company."

"Clearly," Athos agreed, smiling ironically, but couldn't find another way to put words to his disquietude. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Not long after noon, Treville swept by their post, picking Athos up in his wake. He was on his way to a meeting with the Cardinal, and quite probably wanted Athos' presence as a deterrence from hitting the man. Athos stood by in a lot of those meetings, and he had yet to decide if Treville was attempting to groom him for command, or if he merely wanted some blue blood standing behind him. If it ever became clear it was the former, Athos would be forced to object; if the latter, he couldn't say he cared. Treville knew his background, of course, if not the particulars, and the Cardinal knew everything, or so it seemed. He had to admit that hearing his orders unfiltered had its advantages.

Today, the meeting concerned a bodyguard for the King's brother, or, more precisely, a bodyguard for his bodyguard, the situation between the King and Monsieur le Prince being what it was. At least Athos could look forward to several weeks of stifling rooms full of hostile, heavily armed and increasingly bored soldiers, all of whom were under orders to not to start a fight under any circumstances, all of whom would enjoy nothing more in all the world. Athos decided that he should talk Treville into letting them bring d'Artagnan along, purely to see what happened.

Just as the young man came into his thoughts, the Cardinal said, "On another matter, Captain, I congratulate you on your recent service to His Majesty."

Athos felt his spine stiffen, waiting for the barb, but Treville bowed slightly and said, "I live every day in the service of the King."

The Cardinal smiled thinly. "Service, yes. That reminds me, I have a note from a certain Englishman, thanking me for a kind service rendered to him, but I think it might have gone astray."

"Your Eminence?" Treville was frowning now, just slightly, and Athos could almost see him trying to put _service_ , _Englishman_ and _note_ together into their double meaning and find the Cardinal's slight therein. For his part, Athos felt a twist of pain in his stomach, not quite a sudden apprehension, but like the feeling one got the second before one's horse stumbled at full gallop. His earlier disquietude deepened into dread.

"No?" the Cardinal pressed, clearly enjoying the game. "I had thought he was referring to one of your men, who did this service. Perhaps not."

"I'm afraid you've missed your mark," Treville said, still nonplussed.

"It has happened," the Cardinal said, but his voice told differently. He was smiling like a cat. "Still, I shall certainly think of it next time you accuse me of back-alley dealings. Good day to you, Captain."

The pain in Athos' stomach clawed up and wrap itself around his heart, around his throat. He would have cried out as though wounded, but found he could no longer breathe. Treville might not have read the subtext in the Cardinal's words, but he also hadn't spent two days trying to puzzle out d'Artagnan. For Athos, it was all too clear. Brutally clear. White-hot fury replaced the strangled feeling in his chest, and, for a moment, all he could see was his own hands around the Cardinal's throat.

"Athos!" Treville snapped, and the flames wreathing Athos' heart abated. Treville was by the door, looking back over his shoulder, clearly having expected Athos to follow him out. The Cardinal was watching him to, still with the cat-like smile on his lips. Strangely, did not reawaken Athos' urge to violence. He could see no point in getting himself killed attacking the Cardinal; the man hadn't even been directly responsible for what had happened, for all that he was gloating over it now. When Treville called his name again, Athos spun on his heel and fell into step behind him.

"What the devil was that about?" Treville asked once they were away from the palace and the Cardinal's more obvious agents. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost in there"

"I have seen a ghost," Athos said. His voice sounded distant to him, as though it were coming from across a large body of water. "She haunts me daily. This is worse."

Treville stopped, cloak swirling around him as he spun to take Athos by the shoulders. "Athos, what in the name of _God_ are you talking about? What did the Cardinal mean?"

Athos shook his head, twisting out of his grip. "I'm sorry, Captain. I must go." He heard Treville cursing him as he broke into a run, but didn't falter. He had to find d'Artagnan.

* * *

D'Artagnan wasn't at the garrison, and he hadn't been seen with Aramis that day, so Athos went next to the house of Madam Bonacieux. Every step of the way, his mind was full of the image of d'Artagnan terrified and in pain, overpowered by some filthy bastard of a foreigner, defiled and alone.

No wonder d'Artagnan had been avoiding Athos since that night. He must hold him to blame for what had happened. Treville may have assigned the mission, but their Captain trusted Athos' judgement in the field. They all knew that had Athos truly dug in his heels the mission would have ended there, and d'Artagnan could have protested all he liked. Instead, Athos had agreed to the ridiculous plan, and, with D'Artagnan had trusting his judgement, he'd prostituted the boy to spare the King a minor embarrassment. _Prostituted_. There was a fine term. As if d'Artagnan had had any choice in the matter. No, the word Athos sought was darker than that.

Athos wanted a drink more than anything in the world right then. No, that wasn't true either, he wanted all of this not to be happening. He wanted these last two days back, to be able to undo what he'd done. That not being possible, the oblivion of alcohol beckoned. He could turn aside here, find a cave, and buy enough wine to drink himself to death. It would probably solve a number of problems, past, present and future.

He did not turn aside, however, but kept on for the Bonacieuxs'. The very least he owed d'Artagnan was an explanation and an apology, and a better one than he could give inebriated. After, well, he'd deal with after when he got to it.

* * *

D'Artagnan finished escorting Constance home – supposedly from mass but actually from another round of pistol lessons – and swung by his room to change his shirt. He meant to meet Aramis shortly; after Athos' comments the previous day, he'd made doubly sure of the time and place, and now didn't want to be late after putting up a fuss about it. He still couldn't imagine why he'd run out on Athos not once but _twice_ the day before. What was the matter with him?

His real problem was not that he didn't have an answer to that, but that he did, or rather he had a list of them.

He'd realised almost immediately that he could never tell a soul what he'd done. In hindsight, he couldn't imagine that any of the Musketeers would have acted as he had; they'd have thought of something else, something more honourable, more fitting of a King's Musketeer. The whole affair had been so sordid and small, and the more d'Artagnan thought of it, the more he saw himself in the harlot's roll, not the knight's. It had been bad enough asking Constance to pretend to be a working girl for a few moments, now he'd actually become one. He couldn't bear the thought of what the Musketeers might think of him for it.

The second problem was that D'Artagnan also couldn't stand _not_ telling anyone. He felt like the secret was burning through his heart. Withholding anything from his new friends felt wrong – especially in the case of Athos who had trusted him with so much – but something like this? He was beginning to feel as though his every action was an evasion, to the point where he'd taken to literally evading people so they wouldn't notice that he was doing it metaphorically as well. He knew it must be becoming so obvious that they had to be able to see through the act. Eventually they'd find out, they had to, and then they'd know he was not only a slattern but a liar as well.

And then what would he tell them? What would he tell _Athos_ , who seemed to be able to look right through him? He'd sold himself. He'd sold himself, and he'd enjoyed it. He'd sold himself, and he'd enjoyed it, while thinking of his friend. The idea of saying any of it made him feel sick, a sensation not aided by the heat, or the previous night's activities.

As if his thoughts had summoned him – though really, what else had he been thinking of these past few days? – he heard Athos' voice in the hallway. D'Artagnan's glance again went to the window; only a single-story drop this time. He'd made it before, but no, Athos' voice became clearer. He was asking for d'Artagnan. He sounded almost panicked. What if something had gone wrong? What if Athos needed him?

D'Artagnan buckled his sword belt and was checking his powder when Athos burst into his room. Perspiration streaked his face, soaking his collar, but, for all that he'd clearly run some distance, his skin had a pale, sickly cast. D'Artagnan tried to read what lay behind his wild, wide-eyed expression, but all he could tell was that something had gone desperately wrong.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "Has something happened to Porthos or Aramis? Are they injured? Do you need help?" He made to step around Athos, thinking they could catch up on the way to wherever they need to go, but an unyielding hand gripped his shoulder, stopping him dead.

Athos held him there, taking one slow, steadying breath, then another, before saying, "No, d'Artagnan, stay. No one's hurt, only–" he broke off, gaze dropping to the floorboards, and in that moment all the heat in him seemed to be extinguished, as if d'Artagnan were a douter, and all that remained was grey. Grey eyes lifted to meet d'Artagnan's, and never had a soul looked so worn. "Oh, d'Artagnan," he said, beginning again. "Please, sit. We must talk."

It was a timely command; d'Artagnan could feel his knees weakening, and he sank back onto the edge of the bed. Every variation of everything he'd thought to say these last few days spun through his head at once. Before he could get out a single word, Athos dropped to his knees in front of him. He pushed off his hat and tilted his head back to look up at d'Artagnan, sweat-darkened hair clinging to his forehead. D'Artagnan put his hands on Athos' shoulders, intending to try to draw him to his feet, or at least to sit beside him, but Athos covered them with his own. His gloved fingers curled around d'Artagnan's bare ones, fixing them both in place.

"Please," Athos said again, and oh, Sweet Christ, he was _begging_. "You must tell me how you got those letters."

He'd made it a request, but d'Artagnan could tell that, somehow, he knew already, and the knowledge had felled him like a pistol ball. D'Artagnan thought about the window, but now the drop wasn't nearly far enough. He'd have flung himself off the spire of Notre Dame before he saw Athos come to this. If he could have transported himself there now, he would have done so rather than facing this conversation. Athos held onto him, still, and d'Artagnan drew a breath, curling his hands around the edges of Athos' fingers.

"How did you find out?" he asked, and felt Athos' shoulders slump the instant the question crossed his lips. He must not have known for sure then. Well, he did now, and no help for it.

"Cardinal Richelieu." Athos' voice was raw. "He was hinting, trying to bait Captain Treville." At d'Artagnan's gasp, he squeezed his hand. "Treville didn't guess. Richelieu must have thought he already knew, that he'd ordered you to–"

"The Captain would never do that," d'Artagnan snapped. "He's not like the Cardinal."

Athos nodded, falling silent for a moment. He seemed to be studying d'Artagnan's face, though what he saw there, d'Artagnan didn't know. "You must know that Treville would sooner cut off his sword hand than give any of his men such an order." He paused to swallow, then finished, "And so would I."

Unable to meet those serious grey eyes for even a second longer, d'Artagnan dropped his gaze. Athos had just made what he thought of what d'Artagnan had done perfectly clear. For all that d'Artagnan had run this moment over in his head, now that it had come he found he wasn't prepared at all. Nausea clawed at his stomach, making the whole room spin. "I do know that," he said in a small voice. "I know you wouldn't have wanted–" He broke off, shaking his head miserably. "It doesn't matter now."

He stared steadily his knees, waiting for Athos to renounce him. Any moment now, he would let go of his hands, rise to his feet, turn, and walk out the door. D'Artagnan wondered if he'd see him again after that, if he'd see any of them. Athos would have to tell Captain Treville, but maybe Porthos and Aramis wouldn't need to find out. But what would d'Artagnan do then? He could hardly go back to shadowing the Musketeers, as if nothing had happened, not when they _knew_.

Even as he decided that it would be best to leave Paris and return to Gascony, d'Artagnan felt Athos pull away. He slumped forward, curling his arms around his chest. He thought his heart might be breaking, but resolved not to let Athos see the worst of it. He wouldn't weep, at least.

When Athos spoke again, he voice came out in a low groan. "Oh, d'Artagnan," he murmured, but couldn't seem to find any other words.

Something touched d'Artagnan's face: warm, un-gloved fingers on his temples, then the press of dry lips on his brow. It lasted only a moment, then the touch fell away, but d'Artagnan felt as though his heart had started beating again.

"What matters is whether he hurt you." Athos customary self-assured tone had returned, and d'Artagnan let himself sink into it. Athos was still here, still speaking to him, and, what was more, he seemed to be treating him as he always had. "If you would prefer not to ask Aramis, I'm know of several physicians who–"

"I'm not hurt," d'Artagnan interrupted, touched by Athos' consideration. "He didn't force me, not really. I..." he swallowed, but Athos might as well know the worst of it, "I was willing. I just let him do what he wanted. Honestly, he was very gentle."

He felt a puff of air on his skin as Athos let out a long sigh. He murmured something so softly that, even a hand's breadth away, d'Artagnan couldn't make it out. He thought it might be a prayer.

"He touched me, and I, well, I didn't object; in the end–" D'Artagnan felt his face heat, but he pressed on. "In the end, I spilled in his hand."

Athos knelt in silence, apparently taking in d'Artagnan's story, but still he didn't turn away. "I'm glad you're uninjured," he said at last. "When I heard what Richelieu said, I feared the worst, I thought..." He pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes, holding them there for a long time. "Had Treville not been there, I would have choked the life from him. I almost wish I had."

"I'm glad you didn't," d'Artagnan said. "If they executed you for treason, who would be here to growl at me?"

"Treville, or I'd haunt you from hell." Athos wasn't quite smiling, but the corner of his lip twitched up.

D'Artagnan grinned back. He felt a peculiar kind of liberty just then. It seemed as though, not matter what he said, he was unable to drive Athos away. He felt a sudden urge to reach across the space between them and stroke Athos' hair. It was still dishevelled from his sprint across the city, and d'Artagnan longed to smooth it, to touch Athos' face. 

"What would you have done?" he asked, keeping his arms firmly folded. "If the only way to get the letters had been to let him do that to you, would you have let him?"

Athos sighed. "I wasn't there, d'Artagnan. I can't know what I would have done. I can tell you that if I'd known about the Cardinal's arrangement, I'd have stopped you going." He rested a hand on d'Artagnan's knee. "There's no shame in it," he said brusquely, and d'Artagnan blinked at the sudden change in tone. "In men lying together; many prefer–"

"I'm aware of the facts of life, thank you." D'Artagnan held out a hand to forestall any kind of of detail. "I think, in future, that _I'd_ prefer to have a little more choice in partner."

"Of course." Athos nodded sharply and finally rose to his feet. D'Artagnan stood with him. "And, in future, it might be best to save laying down your body for the King and Country for a last resort."

It should have sounded like a reprimand, but d'Artagnan found himself laughing in relief. Athos sounded so normal, so much like everything d'Artagnan had ever wanted. He laughed and he reached out and patted Athos' shoulder.

A second later, he found himself wrapped tightly in Athos' arms. His own arms circled Athos' waist, seemingly of their own accord, taking hold of double fistfuls of his jacket. Leather creaked as Athos tightened his grip, seeming to hang on for his life. D'Artagnan found he had to take small, shallow breaths to breathe at all. The flood of emotion, all packed into a space minutes, had made him feel as through he'd fallen into a spring torrent, and had only just pulled himself, exhausted and shaking, to the bank. He clung to Athos, burring his face in his neck, and breathed in the reek of leather and stale perspiration.

"You smell bad," he muttered.

Both their bodies shook when Athos laughed. "We're in Paris in the height of the summer. Everything smells bad."

They held onto each other for a few moments more, until d'Artagnan didn't notice that press of leather on one cheek or the scratch of beard on the other, until their breathing fell into sync. Then Athos pulled away, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair. "I should report the Treville," he said. "He'll turn out the garrison if I'm not back soon."

"What will you tell him?"

"Oh, I'll invent something, or the truth. Whatever you'd prefer."

D'Artagnan thought about it. "I don't think anyone else need know." Athos nodded, starting to turn away, but this time d'Artagnan caught his wrist. "Athos!" He could feel the pulse point under his fingertips, and pressed into the sensation. "I'm glad you know. Keeping it from you almost felt worse than what I did."

Athos' lips pressed into a thin line, and his jaw twitched. Finally, he said, "I'd kill that bastard Englishman, if it would do any good."

"I'm pretty sure it's too late for that," d'Artagnan said, sincerely, but he felt a little more of his worries drift away downstream. Athos knew almost everything, almost the worst of it, and he didn't seem to care. Rather, he did care, but not about what d'Artagnan had done. "Athos," he said, again keeping him from leaving; it seemed impossible to let him leave now, "Have you ever, with another man, I mean..."

"Yes, I have," Athos said shortly, then settled his hat back on his head, turned, and strode out of the room.

D'Artagnan frowned after him. He wasn't sure if he'd ultimately managed to say the wrong thing, or if Athos was fleeing in the face of a surfeit of emotional intimacy. Perhaps it was something of both. After everything they'd just said, d'Artagnan felt he could let that question, and its intriguing answer, rest. For now. There's be time enough to dig for answers later.

And there would be a later. D'Artagnan felt his frown fade. There'd be plenty of laters in which to discover plenty of things, as many as he wanted. For now, he picked up his gloves and ran down the stairs to meet Aramis.

* * *

When he got back to the garrison, Athos made up some story that he didn't think Treville especially believed, but told it in a tone that convinced the Captain to leave it alone. Then he took the last of his pay, bought several bottles of mediocre Armagnac, and took them back to his rooms for purpose of drinking himself insensible.

The last five years had given him a pretty good idea of how much he'd need to drink to render the world blurry, as versus knocking himself out, or rendering himself unable to possess a coherent thought for a week. With Monsieur le Prince's impending visit, he couldn't afford that last, no matter how much of a good idea it seemed right now. He needed to keep his commission; it was the only thing he had left.

Still, he planned to cut through the spirits with enough speed to knock every image of the Englishman being _gentle_ to d'Artagnan clean out of his head. Until the next day, at least. It never worked for long, only one thing would, and he had yet to drive himself to that point.

The problem was that the first half a bottle only seemed to bring horrifying clarity to everything. As much as Athos drank to forget, at a certain point, every pernicious thought came crowding into his mind, and refused to leave until it had had its say.

He couldn't think what else he could have said to d'Artagnan. It would be one thing to convince to little idiot that being a Musketeer wasn't meant to cost his soul, but he did not, at the same time, want to accuse him of defiling himself. He seemed to have enough of those thoughts on his own, and from a certain perspective what d'Artagnan had done wasn't much different than Aramis, or occasionally Porthos, sleeping his way to into the favour of well-pursed lady. Only Athos knew there was a difference, and unspoken agreement that happened in the case of Aramis, and had not happened here. Athos didn't want to convince d'Artagnan that the Musketeers valued his honour so lightly that he could sell himself for the sake of a mission. He did not want d'Artagnan to think he was something _less_ in their eyes, something less in Athos' eyes.

As many times as he ran the mission over in his head, he couldn't come up with any reason that it wasn't his responsibility. If only he'd pushed their captured messenger harder, if only he'd put his foot down and sent Aramis instead, no matter that he didn't match the description. He should have scrapped the mission entirely, king and whole bloody country be damned. At least that would have kept d'Artagnan safe, though so, he supposed, would packing him in straw and crating him in the cellar. The boy would come to hate Athos if he kept trying to protect him, and the thought of that, above almost all things, Athos couldn't bear.

The middle third of the bottle drew his thoughts into baser things: again the images of the faceless stranger with his hands all over d'Artagnan's lithe body, again d'Artagnan writhing as the Englishman entered him, trapped both by the weight above him and his own indentured pleasure. He could still see the shame of it painting d'Artagnan's cheeks red, the humiliation in those dark eyes that had been unable to meet his own. No matter how "gentle" the man had been, d'Artagnan hadn't desired to feel his touch, nor to take pleasure from it.

As he started the second bottle, the amorphous figure of the Englishman replaced itself with Athos' own body. Now, in his mind, Athos' hands peeled away the layers of satin and lace; Athos' mouth forced d'Artagnan's unwilling, unresisting lips; it was Athos who ran his hands over bared skin, taking no notice of how it trembled at his touch; Athos splayed the boy across a bed, pushing his legs open, then forcing himself between them.

The brandy made it impossible to separate the self-contempt and arousal this turn brought, though his body was too sotted to rise to it. The fantasy continued, nonetheless.

As his imagined self came to climax, alcohol keeping his real body lax, he could hear his name on d'Artagnan's lips. Not a breathy whisper, but a shout.

Hands shaking his shoulders, then. From behind, which didn't make sense. Who could be behind him? He shook his head, but he was far too late to clear it.

Athos rolled over, trying as his vision blurred to separate the world of his imaginings from the reality of the room. D'Artagnan's face looked at him accusingly in both. The truth of it cut deepest. It might not have been Athos own prick fucking d'Artagnan into the bed, but he'd been the prick that had allowed it to happen.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, then consciousness slid away.

* * *

Athos woke entirely on the bed, with his boots off, and a blanket draped over him. That struck him as odd, but the pounding in his head kept him from examining the situation. It was only half an hour, a bucket of tepid water, and two glasses of wine later, after he'd found Porthos, who had asked if d'Artagnan had found him the night before, that the situation became appallingly clear.

"I wasn't aware that d'Artagnan knew where I lived," he said, hand pressed over his eyes.

Porthos laughed, presumably for the sole purpose of making his eyeballs feel as though they were about to drop out of his head. "He didn't until I told them."

It was times like these that made Athos regret allowing himself the indulgence of friendship. "I don't remember seeing him," Athos lied. "Has he been here today?" he asked, hoping to make plans around d'Artagnan's whereabouts, but Porthos shrugged enigmatically.

As it turned out, Treville had them on drills all day, and Athos barely saw d'Artagnan, let alone talked to him. It was only at the end of the day, as he let Aramis dump a bucket of water over his head, did he consider the irony of his avoidance of d'Artagnan. He laughed then, and shook the drops from his hair before raking it out of his eyes.

"Are you gracing us with your company tonight?" Aramis asked, seeming to take his lack of a scowl as encouragement. "Or will you hole up like a bear with a sore paw again?"

Athos considered, and shook his head. He had about half a bottle of Armagnac, several bottles of wine, bread, cheese and sausage, and almost no money in his rooms. He could probably last a couple of days on that. Hopefully, by then, he would have cleared his head. He didn't think he could stand seeing d'Artagnan at the moment, not after the thoughts he'd had about him the night before.

Aramis pursed his lips, and Athos stared back at him levelly, pretending not to see the concern in his eyes. With a disgusted turn of his mouth, Aramis shook his head and looked away. "As you will." He hesitated for a moment, on the verge of saying more, then walked away without another word.

A small spark of satisfaction lit in Athos' chest. Every time he saw the shared looks of concern, of pity, between Porthos and Aramis, his heart lurched. He knew that his own road could lead nowhere but to self-annihilation, with hell following soon after, and had no desire to ride down it with the two finest men he'd ever met. There were times, brief times, usually when utterly inebriated, that he felt loath to leave them behind, but sense inevitably returned in the morning. He hoped that he would always have the strength to keep them a sword's length from the darkness that would one day swallow him.

He bartered a bottle of wine to get the landlord's boy to draw a bath, then didn't bother to heat it, and stayed in the cool water, trying not to think of d'Artagnan, until shivers wrecked his muscles. The laundress had been and gone, and his bed smelt strongly of lye and imperceptibly of rosemary. Athos sprawled naked on top of it, slowly warming to the room.

A few swallows of brandy when he came in had taken the edge off things, but couldn't find the strength to roll over and get the bottle now. He could feel the shadows of melancholy growing around him, but they were not yet deep enough to go to the effort of drowning them. A few flies buzzed around the ceiling, and he watched them listlessly, wondering why he put so much work into staying alive. He was damned regardless, why bother staving off hell for a few more years?

The answer, of course, was fourfold: Treville, Porthos, Aramis, and, recently, d'Artagnan. As long as he had strength to defend them, he wouldn't leave their sides. Even if he couldn't save himself, they were worth any struggle to continue.

Athos didn't respond to the first, tentative knock on the door, but rolled to his feet when it turned into pounding, wrapping the sheet around his waist. It had to be one of the Musketeers; his landlord had long since learned not to bother him.

He was half right; d'Artagnan leaned in the hall, fist raised, mouth twisted into a grimace. "Oh good, you're still standing," he said, then paused seeming only then to take in Athos' state of undress. His glance darted down Athos damp chest, past the sheet and to his bare feet before returning to his face. Warm as the room was, Athos shivered. "I was going to ask to come in, but–"

Stepping back, Athos held the door open and inclined his head in invitation. When d'Artagnan was inside, he stood with his back to the door, one hand clutching the sheet in place. He wouldn't normally be bothered about nakedness in front of another man, but given recent events he thought d'Artagnan might be more comfortable if he covered himself.

They said nothing for a moment, and his eyes followed d'Artagnan's as he assessed the room for the first time in daylight. Athos didn't have much, and it had never bothered him, but watching d'Artagnan take in the narrow bed, single chair, battered wardrobe, bath full of cold, dingy water, and the dozen or so empty bottles littering the floor, he could feel a little colour creep into his cheeks. Still, he supposed that the boy had to know what he was already. He'd been here the previous night, after all.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Athos asked when it became clear that d'Artagnan wasn't going to start the conversation. "Is something wrong?"

"I wanted to talk." D'Artagnan folded his arms across his chest, looking so vulnerable that Athos had to roughly suppress the desire to cross the space between them and give him another hug. Instead, he waited. "I don't mean to burden you, but I don't know what else to do. You were so kind to me yesterday, and..." he swallowed. "No one else knows."

Wordlessly, Athos crossed to the bed, took a swing of Armagnac and held the bottle out to d'Artagnan. "The glasses aren't clean either," he said, and d'Artagnan shrugged and took the bottle. He made a face at the quality but belted some back nonetheless. Athos waited until he'd scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before speaking. "You could never be a burden, d'Artagnan." If he ever was, Athos would never admit to it. He owed him too much already, his life twice over as the least of it. "Now sit, tell me what's on your mind." He waited until d'Artagnan settled on the chair before dropping to the edge of the bed, sheet pooling around his waist.

"I can't stop thinking about it," d'Artagnan said, and Athos flinched, wishing he had the brandy bottle back. Still, d'Artagnan probably needed it more than he did, even if he seemed to be wringing its neck rather than drinking it. They sat far enough apart that Athos couldn't quite reach across to rest a hand on his knee, and d'Artagnan's shoulders slumped a little more with every word. "I've tried to move on, tried not to think of it, even got drunk with Porthos, but it seems like every time I close my eyes, I see him, what we did. Sometimes, I think I can feel his hands on me still. It's driving me mad."

Athos took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. He didn't know what to say, other than that he probably was not a good man to ask for advice on how to put the past behind him. He'd promised to talk, however. "It hasn't been more than a handful of days," he said. "Maybe with time..." he trailed off and shook his head. His hypocrisy only went so far.

"I thought maybe I could replace it somehow, feel something else and remember that," d'Artagnan continued, seeming not to notice Athos' inane contributions. "Duelling hasn't helped, nor anything else I've tried, I thought maybe if it were closer to what I felt that night, then..." he shook his head tiredly.

"If it's a woman you're after, you're better going to Aramis," Athos told him. "Unless you want me to ask him for you." He could just imagine how that conversation would go, but he'd rather d'Artagnan hired a clean whore, or better still found a nice girl after some fun with a pretty young thing. Aramis seemed to have a near-limitless supply of those, and Athos knew of none. "Or were you thinking of Mme Bonacieux?" He sincerely hoped that d'Artagnan wasn't going to ask him for advice in regard to courting.

"She's married," d'Artagnan said out of habit, then, "That's not what I meant."

Athos spread his hands. "And what you meant was?"

They seemed to have hit a block, however. D'Artagnan stared at the bottle in his hands for a moment before taking another drink.

"Whatever it might be," Athos continued carefully, "I wouldn't let it stand between us. You can always come to me for support." So long as he was sober, at least.

D'Artagnan nodded. He took a breath and straightened himself, pushing back his shoulders and lifting his chin to look Athos right in the eye. "I thought maybe a man."

"No!" snapped Athos, and regretted the word instantly. "I apologise," he amended, but d'Artagnan's expression had already closed. He pressed on regardless, "I don't know..." he stopped. That was a lie. He knew of several places where one could find men of the kind d'Artagnan apparently sought. He just didn't trust d'Artagnan with any of them. "I would not see you hurt again," Athos said. Again, and with more seriousness, he considered the idea of packing d'Artagnan in straw and storing him in a locked cellar, where he'd be safe.

"Of course." D'Artagnan rose to his feet, setting the brandy on the chair. "I understand. I hope you won't take it against me."

"What?" said Athos, also rising. The sheet slipped again, but he caught it, holding his free hand toward d'Artagnan. "Did you not hear a word I said? Please, stay. We'll... we'll work something out."

However, d'Artagnan did not sit, but stood with the chair between them, hands braced on the back as through he'd collapse without it. "I'm sorry," he said, and Athos felt like screaming. "I have no idea what I was thinking to ask that of you. You said yesterday that you had..." a hesitation, then a shrug, "been with men, and you know, and I trust you more than anyone." He shook his head. "It was too much to presume that you'd want–especially after what he did–of course you don't, not with me."

Again, Athos felt the pieces fall into place, and, again, his stomach twisted. He crossed the room until only the rickety wooden chair stood between them. D'Artagnan's knuckles had gone white, and he was chewing his lip as he stared at them. Athos laid his hand on top of d'Artagnan's and waited for him to look up. "I mistook your meaning," he said softly, tilting his head down so it would appear that he was looking up at d'Artagnan. "I never imagined that you'd want me, and thought that–" He squeezed d'Artagnan's hand gently. "It's of no importance what I thought. If you're sure that you are asking, my answer is surely, 'yes,' to whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

D'Artagnan glanced at his hands again then back up, his dark eyes serious. "Not that I know of."

"Good. I never will." Athos straightened, widening his stance and pushing is chest forward. Then he let the sheet fall to the floor. "Whatever you want of me, I'm yours."

* * *

As the sheet fell away, d'Artagnan forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on Athos' face. This was what he'd come here for, barely daring to hope that he'd get it. This was the image that had haunted his dreams these past few nights, the Englishman's face transforming into Athos' and back again until he could hardly seem to remember what had actually happened. Now that he had it, he wasn't sure how to proceed, and he didn't know if Athos knew either.

Athos stood still as a column, hands at his sides, waiting for d'Artagnan to move, and so, after only the briefest pause, he mentally shrugged and reached out. D'Artagnan let his hand caress the side of Athos' face. The beard tickled his palm and underneath it the line of his jaw felt stiff with tension. He let his hand rest there, waiting, a question in his eyes, until Athos turned his face to the palm, pressing a kiss to the centre.

D'Artagnan could see something feral in Athos' eyes, now slanted to look sideways up at him, watchful, waiting. At any moment, something could release inside him, and d'Artagnan would be lost. Or, if he looked again, the man stood with his head slightly bowed, completely naked and vulnerable in front of a clothed and armed d'Artagnan, who had a hand nearly on his throat. As if of their own accord, he traced his fingers down the side of Athos' neck. As he moved, Athos tilted his head back, exposing his throat and d'Artagnan felt his breath catch.

Looking only into Athos' eyes, he reached out to stroke down the length of Athos' ribs, his hand coming to rest on his hip. Still, he didn't move, standing motionless, but shivering a little despite the heat. Athos was letting him do as he liked, d'Artagnan realised, uneasily. He wondered how far Athos would let this go. He wondered more why he was doing it at all.

His hands dropped back to the chair, and he could feel the wood creak as he clenched it.

Athos sucked in his lips to wet them before asking, "Is something wrong?"

"I don't want you to feel you're in debt to me," d'Artagnan said carefully. He wondered if this surge of power and desire at Athos' nakedness was what the Englishman felt, and if it were, what that made him.

"I owe you my life," Athos said, but he was smiling kindly. He deliberately looked down at himself, and for the first time d'Artagnan let his gaze follow. One touch, and Athos had already begun to harden. "But this is no penance."

"All right." D'Artagnan tugged his belts free and placed them and his weapons on the chair, following it with his vest. Down to his shirt, trousers and boots, he felt a little less weird. Comfortable enough, at least, to step around the chair and lean in to kiss Athos.

Their mouths met awkwardly, the angle not quite right, d'Artagnan leaning further then he'd thought because Athos still hadn't moved. He steadied himself on Athos' shoulder, and tried again. As their lips met, d'Artagnan felt the same quivering restraint. He played at Athos' mouth, scratch of his beard keeping him present, and Athos' lips parted, but he didn't lean into d'Artagnan. He seemed frozen, and all d'Artagnan wanted was for Athos to warm to him, for their bodies to mould together. He took hold of the back of Athos' neck and pulled him forward, into the kiss.

Something inside Athos seemed to come undone then, and he turned toward d'Artagnan, clutching his shoulders. His mouth hardened against d'Artagnan's, becoming all taut lips and devouring teeth. D'Artagnan felt his lips bitten, then, opening his mouth felt Athos moan against him. Athos' tongue pressed against his teeth, tracing the edges, pressing against d'Artagnan's own tongue. The grip on his shoulders felt like iron, and d'Artagnan buried his own hand in Athos' damp hair, holding them together.

Their chests brushed, then pressed together, and d'Artagnan yearned to feel Athos' bare skin against his own. Pausing to take off his shirt would mean breaking the kiss, however, and that he never wanted to do.

He'd wondered, before he'd come, if feeling a man's hands on him again would cause him to feel anxious or afraid, but now all he felt was relief. No matter what had happened to him, no matter what he'd done, Athos was here, and he was holding him, and it was going to be all right. Even Athos' hands moving to his hips then scratching up his back rucking his shirt to the armpits, only made him lean into Athos harder. He felt Athos' cock, now hard and erect, pressing against his trousers, and he stood on his toes to rub his hips against it. Athos gasped, and his blunt nails dug into d'Artagnan's shoulder blades.

Still his mouth sucked and bit and plied and teased d'Artagnan's, his kisses focused and all consuming. When he finally wrenched free, wet hair sliding out of d'Artagnan's grasp, d'Artagnan tried to follow, but Athos had the edges of his shirt now, and was pulling it over his head. D'Artagnan raised his arms as the fabric separated them, and wrapped them around Athos' neck when they were free of it. He remembered doing this to the Englishman, but everything about this felt different from that night. At last he could feel their chests against each other, nothing between them now.

D'Artagnan kissed the corner of Athos' mouth, then his jaw, then his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and soap. His beard tickled d'Artagnan's ear, and d'Artagnan turned to rub his face against it. He felt more than heard Athos' laugh, a deep rumble in his chest, and murmured in response. Had he been a cat, he would have purred. He wished he could.

Again, Athos slipped out of his hold, this time twisting and dropping down. He fell to his knees in front of d'Artagnan, fingers deftly flicking one button open after another until d'Artagnan's trousers fell open. He pressed his face against d'Artagnan's smalls, against he's painfully hard cock underneath, and inhaled deeply.

Trying to keep his balance, d'Artagnan buried both hands in Athos' hair. He did his best not to force him forward, no matter how much he wanted take handfuls of that sleek dark hair and rub himself against Athos' face until he came. The smalls joined the trousers a moment later, both shoved down his thighs, and then Athos took his cock in his mouth.

He didn't spend time making a meal of it, but sucked as deep and hard as he could. One hand held d'Artagnan's hips steady, while the other gripped the base of his cock. D'Artagnan howled. He tried to buck forward, but Athos held him steady. He clenched his hands in Athos' hair, which just made him suck harder. The warmth and the suction, and the feel of Athos' tongue doing devilish things to the bottom of his cock undid him embarrassingly quickly.

D'Artagnan tried to warn Athos, but the words wouldn't articulate and all they made Athos do was suck him even deeper and squeeze tight with both hands. D'Artagnan's vision blacked out for a moment, the wash of pleasure and fulfilment pounding over him, first as a breaker, then following with gently lapping waves. Through it all, Athos held onto him, still sucking lightly, the tip of his tongue tracing pattens on his cock.

When Athos finally pulled away, leaving d'Artagnan spent and unsteady, he tilted his head back to smile up at him. A glint of spit or seed glistened at the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away with smug confidence. D'Artagnan had to laugh, and he pulled Athos back to his feet for another kiss. He could taste his seed, in Athos' mouth, but felt too weary and sated to care.

Athos' hard cock rubbed idly against d'Artagnan's spent one. It reminded d'Artagnan of the final thing he wanted. Breaking the kiss, he leaned forward to whisper into Athos' ear, "Would you take me?"

The hairs around his ear tickled as Athos took a sharp breath. He pulled away, keeping his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders, but putting enough distance between them to look d'Artagnan in the eye. "That's not necessary."

"I never said it was." D'Artagnan held his breath, waiting. He hoped Athos wouldn't ask him to explain. He wasn't sure he could. It wasn't about driving out the memory of the Englishman, not anymore at least. The need to be touched, to be surrounded and taken and, maybe, loved filled him, seemingly only heightened by the lassitude that had followed his own release. "Please."

Finally, Athos nodded and pulled him into an embrace, and d'Artagnan found himself leaning on him, suddenly weary. He rested his head on Athos' shoulder, letting him stroke his back and kiss his hair, listening to the jumbled promises Athos whispered into his ear. He sank to the edge of the chair at Athos' guidance, and tugged his boots and trousers off, while Athos moved his washbasin and saddlebags away from the bed and covered the foot with a folded blanket.

When d'Artagnan made to lie across it, Athos stopped him, tugging him around until he was sitting on the blanket. "I need you to see it's me," he said.

"I'm sure I'll know that." But d'Artagnan lay back across the bed anyway, folding his arms under his head. He heard Athos rustling around in his dresser, and vaguely considered drifting off. He could never sleep now though, not with Athos kneeling below him, his rough hands stroking the insides of his thighs, his dark head bending to kiss d'Artagnan's belly and soft prick. When d'Artagnan spread his legs, he ran a finger along between his cheeks, and d'Artagnan's breath quickened.

As Athos press oiled fingers inside him, he bit his lip and rolled his head back. It still felt strange, this invasion, but somehow it also reawakened his lust. He felt arousal pushing at the edges of his exhaustion and reached down to stroke Athos' hair encouragingly.

"To be young again," Athos said, laughing. He clambered up to lean over top of d'Artagnan, hands braced on the bed by his sides. "Wrap your legs around me," he instructed, watching d'Artagnan's face as would a card sharp searching for the least tell. "Tell me if you need to stop."

D'Artagnan made sure to dig his heels into the small of Athos' back, letting him know exactly what he thought of that idea, and Athos smiled again. His happiness made d'Artagnan's heart warm in a way he couldn't explain; he just knew that he'd lay down his life, and more, for a heartfelt smile or laugh like that. He pushed up to kiss Athos, missing his mouth but catching his cheek instead. Athos bent to kiss him properly, and, as he was, pushed into d'Artagnan.

The double entry, his tongue in d'Artagnan's mouth, his cock soon deep in d'Artagnan's ass overwhelmed him. D'Artagnan tried to tilt his hips back even further, and pulled down with his heels at the same time. He sucked at Athos' tongue and ran his hands up and down his back, trying wordlessly to urge him on. The message got across, and Athos grunted and snapped his hips back and forward.

After that, all d'Artagnan could do was to hold on. He clutched Athos shoulders and threw his head back. He felt Athos' lips, then his teeth against his throat, then the join of his neck and shoulder. It was the sharp edge of pain that finally pushed him into hardness. His cock rubbed against Athos' belly, getting infuriatingly little friction with each thrust. He wanted to twist or shift up to increase it, but couldn't pull free of Athos' implacable rhythm. He couldn't even let go his hold on Athos' shoulders, for fear of falling free somehow.

Athos saved him again, taking his cock in hand, and bracing just on one arm. With the slide of oiled skin on his sensitive skin and Athos pressing just there inside him again and again, d'Artagnan knew he wouldn't didn't last long.

Above him, Athos shuddered and made a choked sound against his shoulder, hips pressing forward one last time before he sank limply against the bed. He whispered d'Artagnan's name into his ear, kissing his cheek and forehead. All the while, his hand kept stroking up and down d'Artagnan's prick, smooth slides up and hard twists at the base, a thumb across the top, the very edge of a nail along the bottom. D'Artagnan's hips bucked into his hold, never finding a pace as Athos kept robbing it from him. He came when Athos pushed the hood of his cock back with a calloused thumb, squeezing the shaft at the same time. He might have yelled something. He didn't remember later. He knew that his hands dug into Athos' shoulders hard enough to leave a mark.

They lay together for some time, Athos half on top of d'Artagnan, ear pressed to his chest above his heart, d'Artagnan absently stroking Athos' hair. When his heart slowed, Athos pushed off to wet a cloth in the bath and wipe them both clean, then prodded d'Artagnan on his side and curled behind him, arm across d'Artagnan's chest.

"You need a bigger bed," d'Artagnan muttered, feeling sleep pull him down at last.

"I'll look into it," Athos said, breath warm on the back of d'Artagnan's neck. "Never needed one before now."

D'Artagnan nodded, glad for the implied promise, but not wanting to press. He felt safe in Athos' arms, and that was enough for now.


End file.
